Fathers
by Ink On Paper
Summary: But her father was not good to anyone, least of all her. And she never really learnt to love . . . . Complete.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is not the story I mentioned previously, but something that I thought of in algebra today that I have decided to work on as well. And while this little bit is brief, I put it up anyway, but promise to have Chapter 1 up sometime tomorrow. Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own NCIS nor am I affiliated with John Mayer and his associates in anyway.**

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So fathers be good to your daughters

Daughters will love like you do

Girls become lovers who turn into mothers

So mothers, be good to your daughters too . . . .

-_Daughters_ by John Mayer

But her father was not good to anyone, least of all her. And she never really learnt to love.


	2. Fallen Idol

**A/N: Takes place somewhere in Season 7.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.**

Fallen Idol

"Come home," his voice commands all the authority that it once held, like a spell, over her.

But the spell is long since broken so she replies "I am home," her voice neutral, benign, unprovoking. This man is no longer her fight, no more her war. She had nothing more to offer him, nothing left that she would sacrifice to a cause she wasn't sure she believed in. And him, she definitely believed not in him. No, she decides silently, there was nothing more to give.

"You betrayed your people," he spits with all the venom of an asp, and the words spurn her and brand her with their falseness and she bristles. Because after everything she had surrendered for a man that never deserved her efforts, who watched her suffer silently, bearing a burden that was never hers, was accusing her of betrayal. And this must be the irony.

So she retorts, temper flaring like a sunspot, hissing, "I betrayed my people?" She laughs, a short bitter bark that rings hollowly mirthless in her ears. "I betrayed my people? You betrayed me! I-I trusted you and you sent me to die!" And she is yelling now, incredulous and, frankly, pissed off.

But this is the rise he was expecting, hoping, anticipating. And so he takes advantage of this, attempts to manipulate it, implore ancient logos, talk her down with defensive rationality. "It was a vital mission," his voice placates, several decibels lower than his previous sentence.

But, true to her nature, true to her training, she deflects this, caught in pent up rage and suppressed emotion, twenty-eight years suppressed emotion. "It was suicide!" she roars, fearsome lioness that she truly is.

"Then you should be dead!" he snarls, abandoning smooth persuasion and opting for cold, viciousness. He should have known that she would not burn out, so stubborn she was. A fighter to the end, precisely as he taught her, too well perhaps.

"And I would be," she screams, utterly and irrevocably livid. "But some people actually give a damn about me!" And they did, so much so that they condemned themselves to hell to avenge her, retrieve her. And that is one thing this man will never understand, the concept of love and family and diehard loyalty.

"I give a damn about you!" his face is rapidly darkening to crimson, spittle flying from his mouth.

She tilts her head back, laughs again, cocks her head, studies him. Her voice starts soft, gradually increasing in volume, "If that were true, you would have come for me _-you would have fought for me!"_

"What is the point of fighting, you are a lost cause! I should have killed you in Tel Aviv!" and his confession is admitted and there is no more denying that her presumptions are true, her death was warranted, but not even a bullet could be spared for her funeral.

So she draws the gun from her hip, the metal cold in her hand, her skin hot and flushed from hatred and anger. And he doesn't move, doesn't budge, refuses to back down, submit to the woman he never knew. He suppresses a flinch as she slams her Berretta down on the desktop, the resounding crack of metal on wood reverberating through the room. "Here," she whispers, daring, fearless, "kill me. Pull the trigger -I dare you." And he remains still, eyes never leaving her mother's, no glances at the gun, no movement for the gun.

Victory begins to seep into her eyes and he is enraged at this, but still does nothing. "Shoot me, Papa," she coaxes, tone taunting. "Finish what you started -isn't that what you always told me?" She shamelessly tosses his words back at him, torn and soiled and the irony is thick. "Go ahead, Abba, kill me. Kill me like you killed Ari, like you killed Momma . . . .You can't do it, can you? You can sign my death warrant yet you cannot pull the trigger. It is a weakness. Shame, shame," and she shakes her head in mock sadness, disappointment at an already fallen idol.

And as she turns and walks away, rightful pride trailing in her wake, his resolves renews and he shouts, "Do not walk away from me-"

But she interrupts, calls over her shoulder, eyes cold and challenging and flat and the familiarity is uncanny. "What are you going to do, Papa? Shoot me?" And he picks up the gun, aims at her, lets the gun fall, clattering to the floor. She watches, unperturbed, as his mouth forms a firm, taunt line and his dark eyes are emptier than hers. "You are all I have left," he says, trying one last time to salvage the situation, return this to his favor. But she is worn and done and too old, too tired, and has been here too many times to slip into this entrapment once more.

"And now," she whispers earnestly, "you have nothing."

And she walks away, leaving him behind.

And the familiarity? It is uncanny.


	3. Ziver

**A/N: Ick. I despise writer's block. . . . Anyway, here is a little drabble, adding to the Fathers study. Because that is what this is, a study centered around fathers, mostly Ziva/Gibbs, Ziva/Eli, maybe a little bit of Tony Jr./Tony Sr. . . . I hope to update more often, after I find my seemingly elusive writing tempo. Grr, writer's block. . . . .Reviews are a good cure, though! Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I know three things: 1.) Dimensional Analysis sucks 2.) Jet Lag was fabulous 3.) I own nothing.**

Ziver

The first time he calls her Ziver she decides he has simply mangled her name, perhaps two thoughts had overlapped resulting in the crossbred word. After all, how many times has she herself confused her American colloquialisms and twisted pesky English idioms? Besides, she knows he is addressing her, for what else remotely resembles Ziver . . . .?

The second time he calls her Ziver, she knows that he is doing it on purpose. And though this new development interests her, piques her curiosity, she will never ask her silver-haired boss why he has rechristened her. . . . He doesn't call her Ziver every time he addresses her, so she has to listen very carefully for this mysterious name. And perhaps, she muses, this is his ulterior intention, a psychological tactic to keep her attention.

He calls her Ziver when she does something that pleases him, happens across the elusive bullet that condemns a lieutenant, or discovers the façade that a petty officer has implemented to throw the investigation off his trail.

He calls her Ziver when he is concerned, when she spends half the morning sick in the bathroom because she has contracted the flu and he notices how pale she is, or when a sailor, soaring high on an acid trip, holds her at knifepoint, little blood drops precipitating at her neck where the blade had been pressed.

He calls he Ziver when he needs her to listen, to hear every meaning, comprehend the full picture. . . .

Then fateful summer when she is sent home (home?), her liaison position terminated, her heart sad and heavy, when she is caught in a nearly fatal situation, a bomb nearly claiming her life. And word has reached him, no surprise there, the man is seemingly ubiquitous, halfway across the world about her brush with death and he calls her via her father's phone line. And he talks to her, reassures himself that she is fine, his voice echoes, "We miss you Ziver" long after he hangs up. He eventually brings her back home.

The following summer is, ironically, worse than the previous, but again, he brings her home.

And when she is sitting broken on the wrong side of the table in interrogation, completely disowned and lonely, half-healed wounds torn open and dim nightmares brought back to Technicolor reality, he leans down, whispering in her ear. And he uses the keyword that catches her attention, drawing her into his arms without touching her, whispers words that give her stability and a sense of hope.

"You're home now, Ziver."

And she has never figured out why exactly he still calls her this, this funny little pet name, but it doesn't matter anymore. Because she knows it conveys meanings that are not spoken, tells her how much she means to him without uttering a word, reminding her of where she is.

Home.


	4. The Daughter

**A/N: Well, it certainly took me long enough to complete this particular chapter, huh? I still don't know if I got it exactly how it needs to be, so if anyone would like to tell me, it would be appreciated! I really am enjoying writing this story, just not the writer's block that has settled over it. Reviews are the cure, though, so feel free to hit that little green button if you want. Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and this is the sad truth.**

The Daughter

Eli David had wanted a son, a son to carry on his name and legacy within the agency he had sold his soul too. And instead, he fathered a daughter. A weak, infinitesimal baby girl that was born early in November to his wife's joy and his own disappointment. His wife, a kind hearted woman oblivious to human flaws, christened the child Ziva because, in her eyes, this small insignificant mewling infant was a blinding brilliance in their lives. . . .

As a small child, she would wonder if he loved her and she supposed he did because, after all, half of him was her and surely as much as he loved himself, he had to love her too. And maybe even if he only loved her half as much, at least it still was love. _Love_. Yes, that lost its meaning shortly after the insomnia-induced musings of a small little girl plagued by monsters that her father refused to evict from under her bed. . . .

She supposed she should have known, she was smart, cunning, a quick and dignified intelligence that exceeded her years and yet it took her quite a while. Quite a while to realize that love was not a concept in her father's vocabulary. And if he never knew the word, how did she expect him to express it? Eventually, she ceased wondering, ceased feeling.

He gave her her first knife when she was seven. The horrible reality of such a gift was that the silver blade excited her, because she knew that he would have to teach her to wield the weapon and thus she would spend time with the ever elusive man. And so she sought to impress him, her absent father, rapidly developing the ability to hit her targets with frightening accuracy. And so he was proud of her. And so her resolve deepened to please him.

He never did attend her dance recitals to see her glowing golden under a stage light, twirling prettily on her toes, prima ballerina because she worked so very hard, practicing, striving. And even though he promised, vowed, swore he would be there, he never was and she spent the majority of her performance searching shadowed faces, squinting against bright blinding lights, for a countenance that was not there. And though two dozen roses awaited her in his absence, the void of abandonment was never filled.

It was compulsory for Israeli women to serve in the defense force and Ziva willingly donated this time because by now Tali was dead and Ari was gone and she was all alone in a big house because her father worked at all hours and had forgotten that she was still there. And when she finished her two year stint, she transferred to Mossad, because really, what was left for her? And maybe at Mossad she would find whatever was missing, or maybe she would simply find nothing.

She took a bullet her first year as an officer, the jagged metal carving into her side, her blood staining an anonymous street in Cairo. While she was unconscious, under the influence of painkillers, she dreamt of her father, her mother, Ari and Tali. Of a childhood that was never hers. And when she woke up, she was greeted with an envelope bearing her father's handwriting. And one Jenny Sheppard who remained at her bedside despite the fact that they were practically strangers. It was funny how an American with no ties to her whatsoever held more concern over her than her own father. And by funny, it really wasn't funny at all.

A bomb explosion left her in a coma for four and a half days, lying in a hospital cot in Ankara, fighting for her life which was nothing new. And when she finally came to, she was met with a very relieved Jenny and no letter from her father -which was nothing new. . . .

And when Ari went rogue, she was summoned to her father's office, given the formal orders to remove him permanently. And by permanently, she was granted permission -an ultimatum really- to put a bullet in his head. Her brother's head. Her father's son. She should not have been surprised when Ari's last words divulged the terrible truth that she supposed she'd known all along: That she was merely a pawn in some twisted game, a weapon in a war that never had anything to do with her. And she jumped at the chance when it was offered, an escape from her father, from a tangled web of shadowed lies. So she returned to America, land of opportunities and Jenny Sheppard. . . .

As she sat at the embassy after the Iranians framed her for espionage, as she was told that Eli David was 'taking care of it,' she knew what those four words meant. A definition that involved a sacrifice in the form of her and not even a backward glance from her director. . . .

"Your father sends his love," is what Michael told her years later and for some poorly conceived notion, she believed him. Yet all her father sent her was a horrible man that used her and possessed the orders to remove her -permanently.

And it was those years later when she stood, broken and furious, in a grey room she never thought she'd set foot in again, watching her partner (and yes, he was still her partner, even then) coax vital information that she needed to know, she had to know, she deserved to know, from a cold and distant stranger that called himself her father.

"They do what I say. Always."

And according to Michael, her father had sent his love. . . . . Yet he had never sent anything remotely close to love before. What had made her think anything had changed?

Eli David had wanted a son, a son to carry on his name and legacy within the agency he had sold his soul too. And instead, he fathered a daughter. A weak, infinitesimal baby girl that grew into a fierce and determined woman, with a quick temper and deadly aim. And she served him well for quite a while, a valuable tool, until she realized that he was not who she thought he was, until he had stripped everything she believed in down to bare nothingness. And then he signed her death warrant, offered her a chance to fix the failures that were never hers. And so he sent her on a burn mission to the bowels of hell.

Because Eli David had wanted a son. And instead he fathered a daughter.

A daughter that grew to become the incredible woman her mother knew she would be.

A daughter that grew to become the infinite weapon her father created her to be. A weapon that he wielded with pride and eventually lost control of -that he never really had.

Because Ziva David was nobody's prize. Especially not her father's.

Because Eli David had wanted a son.

And instead he got her.

And she never was afraid of him.

But he did love her. Once. . . . Maybe.

But that didn't matter and so he sent her die.


	5. Daddy's Girl

**A/N: I have posted this particular piece before (Random Papers With Ink) so it may seem familiar if you've read those drabbles. Anyway, it seemed fitting here too, so there you have it. A short little oneshot revolving around the 'fathers' concept. Beware TIVA! Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Still own nothing.**

Daddy's Girl

It was the orchestra of car horns that spurred him onward, caused his foot to press down on the accelerator just a little bit more . . . . How ironic, he mused, speeding in the fast lane. . . . His situation, however, was dire, a matter maybe of not life or death, but most definitely a few tears and disappointed words would be spared.

He nearly missed his exit, making a sharp and rather dangerous veer, provoking another barrage of angry honking. Thankfully, his destination was right off the ramp, the big brick building illuminated in the darkening dusk. He had a standoff with a big SUV for a parking space in the overcrowded lot, made it halfway to the entrance before he remembered the vital rectangle of paper that would get him through the door, had to sprint back to his car and retrieve what was left before he recalled the bouquet wrapped in cellophane and promptly had to return to the vehicle for a third time.

When he had finally gained entrance, breezing through the lobby, and wrenching open the heavy wood door, he was dismayed to find the house lights had already been dimmed and the undercurrent of voices had ceased. However the velveteen curtain was still a wall of crimson before the stage, which was promising. And if he stood on his toes, he could see virtually the entire floor of seats, full to the maximum occupation with anticipating audience members –though he was only searching the sea of heads for one in particular . . . . There. Middle row, left section, toward the aisle. He made a beeline for that specific area, eliciting several irritating glares as he passed in front of four or so cameras, being blinded by a flash in the process.

He slid in the vacant seat marked G2, his heart hammering.

"You are late," came a husky acknowledgement his shoulder, warm breath caressing his cheek.

He leaned his head down, his lips near her ear. "But I made it."

"Barely."

"But I made it," he repeated, Cheshire grin firmly in place. "Did she notice?"

A pause, just because she was torturing him, letting him suffer momentarily with the thought of being discovered . . . . "No."

"Good."

She leaned her head against at his shoulder, her hair fanning over his sleeve and he sighed, content. The curtain parted slowly and eight little figures, all clothed in pink tulle, filed across the stage. His grin widened.

"I am glad you made it," she murmured, her voice soft.

"Hey," he whispered back, "I wouldn't miss our little ballerina's recital for the world, Ziva."


	6. Lost Little Girls

**A/N: Well, slow update week, unfortunately. Hopefully, empathises on hopefully, I'll have another chapter for In Sickness and In Health up by Wed., but no promises. And so much for finishing the Playlist in a matter of days. . . . Anyway, this has been sitting on my laptop, uncompleted, for several weeks because I just wasn't sure I'd do it justice, so please let me know if I succeeded. Ziva and Gibbs have such a beautifully complex father/daughter relationship and it's super tricky business weaving Kelly into the fabric. . . . . Anyway, reviews make a relatively dismal week oodles better. Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own, alas, nothing.**

Lost Little Girls

You were never given the opportunity to watch your little girl grow up -a premature death and a too tiny casket and cruel cruel fate saw to that. So you sit up in your dark silent basement, the wood of a skeleton boat smooth under your calloused hands, the wondering ache for what could have been hollow in your heart.

Kelly would be twenty-six today. Would be. Life was full of too many.

She would be out of college, pursuing her dreams, taking the world on with the sweetness of her charisma and her beautiful smile. Maybe she would be married to a man that loved her unconditionally and would protect her no matter what, but in her father's watchful eyes would never be enough. Kelly would be happy and laughing and living her happily ever after. Because she deserved that much, real life fairytales and Prince Charming. Simply because she was his little girl.

She didn't deserve to die.

She was too young, still brimming with potential, still possessing the capacity to do something great, to be somebody. But, you muse, she already was somebody. She was your little girl. And she would always be your little girl, frozen forever in memory at age eight. Because God had claimed her too soon.

You sigh forlornly, a breath of tragedy and silver grief. Absently, you reach blindly for the chisel on your workbench, fingers grasping the molded handle. You bring it to the wood, runs it against the flow of the grain, curly shavings dropping to the dusty floor like feathers. And then you realize what chisel it is that is in your possession, remember the day it was bestowed unto you. A gift. From another lost little girl. . . .

You never expected to find yourself a father to another child, Shannon would always be the mother of your children and only Shannon. Because you really only ever loved Shannon. And Kelly would be your only baby. No one can replace them, no one can fill the void in your chest where your heart once beat.

And Ziva David never did dam up the broken floodgate in your chest, but she did arrive in your world, rather unceremoniously, pulling the trigger that launched a new chapter in your life, slouching and exotic, provoking DiNozzo and frightening McGee, a fiery temper and slender strength.

You were irritated when Jenny pawned her off on your team, after all she was a trained Mossad assassin with impulse issues, she belonged with the CIA not the MCRT. But Jenny gave you an order and, who are you kidding, it was Jenny and you never could say no to her . . . . And so you took on the seemingly impossible task of rewiring Ziva's investigative hardware -which was practically nonexistent. And within time, rather quickly actually, you grew fond of the mysterious woman that now occupied the desk beside yours.

You had to confiscate her weapons, had to yell at her, give her a deft thump to the backside of her head on many occasions, incessantly remind her to act with her head and not her trigger finger. And it did prove an immense chore of teaching her proper interrogation tact, because she had a tendency to resort to her more obscure methods of questioning (some you completely agreed with, but the Constitution happened to frown down upon).

She saved your life and you trusted her, because trust was a black and white thing and she had earned it, deserved it.

Deserved it.

Ziva David was a complex character, elusive behind thick veils of dark secrecies. Her emotional walls were nearly impossible to scale, her pretty face often conveying little feeling, she was a blank page, an ice queen. . . . It took her ages to come around, to realize that your team was her team too, she was slow to learn to trust, even slower to relate. And for the longest time you wondered why.

You suppose now, reflecting back, that you could have put the puzzle pieces together long before you ever did.

She would on, rare occasions, divulge some truth from her elusive past and you eventually began putting her story in order.

A little girl clothed in pink tulle searching against a spotlight for a face that wasn't there.

A little girl, blindfold secured around her eyes, effectively blotting out all light and sense of direction, taken and abandoned in the woods, told to navigate her way home.

A little girl who played with knives instead of Barbies, who laid in bed, listening to reports of distant gunfire rather than cricket lullabies.

A little girl who never got to be a little girl.

Ziva once told DiNozzo that in her world, children grow up fast and you know that this is true. And it isn't remotely fair, that both Kelly and Ziva never were given the opportunity to be little girls. Because Kelly was long gone before her tenth birthday. Because you couldn't protect her overseas and at home too. Because Ziva had no choice in the matter, it was grow up or die. Because she had to protect herself.

You met Eli David over a phone line the summer after Jenny left. Earlier in the day you had been downstairs, working a routine case with strangers, when a news report flickered across the television screen and someone says, "Isn't that Ziva?" And your gut clenches and your mouth goes dry and you are so very tempted to go upstairs and shoot Leon Vance were he perches. Instead you bark orders, make some calls. Eventually after several holdings and countless rings, Eli David picks up his phone. And you don't curse him, you don't threaten. And then her voice filters over the line and you can breath again because she's safe, alive and pulsing thousands of miles away.

You bring her home.

You wondered then how Eli David could put his daughter in such danger, allow her to fight a war that should never have been hers. How he could sleep at night knowing she was in foreign lands in the company of strangers with hidden agendas and concealed knives.

He sent a rogue assassin to her. You never have believed in coincidences and exploding apartments are no exception.

Eli David signed her death warrant, watched her walk away to a waiting desert that burned her in more than one way. A certain suicide, another casualty all for the sake of nothing.

You bring her home.

You didn't get a chance to say goodbye to Kelly, but Eli David was permitted to watch Ziva leave his presence, fully aware that he would never see her again.

You avenged the deaths of your family, of Shannon and Kelly, of Kate and Jenny. It was fitting that you follow the teardrops to the horn of Africa and see that Ziva's memory was treated much the same as those that fell before. However, while you couldn't save one little girl, you did rescue another.

You didn't get a chance to know Kelly at age twenty-six, but Eli David was permitted to know Ziva at age twenty-eight.

You didn't get to protect Kelly from the evils of the world, and while Eli David was granted this chance, he didn't take it. You, however, are more than willing to extend a sheltering wing to Eli's abandoned daughter.

You were daughterless and Ziver was fatherless. And you suppose you two were made for each other, that perhaps some divine being was using you both for a greater good. Surely fate brought her to you, maybe you finally did something to appease a higher being to deserve a second chance at an honor that was stolen too soon.

You empty a mason jar of nails and pour three fingers of amber bourbon into the dusty glass. And then you raise your glass and drink, not to fallen heroes or shattered yesterdays, but to lost little girls.

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**How am I doing?**


	7. Fathers

**A/N: This is not yet then end, my friends. However, this little piece wormed its way into my mind, bugging the heck out of me so I wrote it down and typed it up. And now here we are. Finally an update. If you like, and would like to help, feel free to pester me to update more often -likewise, feel free to do nothing at all. Whichever. More to come, eventually, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own something, but alas it is not NCIS.**

Fathers

"How she take it?" his voice is gruff from where he stands behind her, joining in her watching of a lieutenant as he leads his daughter toward the exit, the marine's arm wrapped protectively around the girl's shoulders.

"How did she take what?"

He sighs, recognizing the tone that has crept into her voice, the stubborn defense she erects when she has been thinking too hard. "The news that Keyes is her father?"

Ziva does not move, does not turn to face him. Instead she continues to look out over the mezzanine, the slow pace of late night tedium. Her silence is enough of an answer.

"You didn't tell her?" and he tries to sound incredulous, really he does.

"There was nothing to tell."

But he has irrefutable evidence contradicting her belief, opinion, and presents his information plainly stating, "Keyes has twenty-three more chromosomes in common with Amanda than Santiago, Ziva."

"She did not need to know."

"It isn't your call," he reminds her and she rotates slowly so she is facing him, dark eyes defiant.

"Keyes was a murderer, he was not Amanda's father," and she says this simply, factually, as if it were the truth. "Daniel Santiago is her father."

"According to DNA, Keyes is."

"It does not make him her father," she states obstinately.

"How do you figure?"

She blinked up at him, narrowing her eyes, as if he was being ignorant on purpose, then turns her back to him again, explaining, "Santiago raised Amanda, not Reyes. Amanda calls Santiago her father, not Reyes. Fathers are more than just biological Gibbs, you know that. Fathers defend their daughters, fathers provide and protect and guide. They do not kill marines and they do not abandon their families for petty reasons. Santiago is Amanda's father."

"And Reyes? Is what? An unfortunate nightmare?"

"A memory that will be forgotten in a few weeks."

He sighs again, exhaling through his nose. "Ziva-"

But she whirls around, eyes bright and guarded, interrupting whatever he was going to say. And her next words register with a resounding echo in his mind.

"According to DNA, Eli has twenty-three chromosomes in common with me. It does not make him my father. Fathers are good to their daughters, Gibbs. They do not kill their neighbors, they do not beat other girls. They do not send their daughters to die."

He leans down, presses a kiss to her temple. "You're right, Ziver."

"I know. . . . You taught me that."


	8. Fathers II

**A/N: Wow. Two updates in two days -I'm mildly impressed with myself. Anyway, here is some Tony/Ziva friendship or romance, whatever floats your boat. (My boat is the USS TIVA, by the way.) I wanted to do a kinda sorta roundabout tribute tag to Flesh and Blood and here is the finished product. Just so you know, spoilers for Flesh and Blood. And this can be before or after the steak out with Gibbs. (I thinking after to keep it in a timeline canon.) I'm hoping everybody is in character (and I really do believe Tony would think like this.) If you want to, please review. And if you don't want to, well, then thank you for reading and no hard feelings :^) I'm really rambly tonight, so I shall shut up now. Much love, Kit.**

**And PS: This has nothing to do with the previous chapter. I just thought that the title 'Fathers' fit this piece too. Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: And. . . . . . . . . _Precisely_. **

Fathers

"I need a beer," he announces, sinking into his chair with a groan, his forehead connecting with his desktop.

The steady clack her keyboard pauses as she studies him over her monitor, one eyebrow arched in amusement. "I take it that your father has left?" she guesses and his grunted answer is muffled against the wood grain. So she smirks, resuming her report to the soundtrack of his periodic sighs and the purr of her computer.

Fifteen minutes later and she hits print and begins the powering down sequence on her computer, ushering some necessary things into her bag. And he lifts his head at the sound her moving about, watching her as she goes through her nightly routine of scrupulously checking over her workspace.

When her car keys appear in her hand, jingling and glinting silver in the lamplight, he takes a breath and begins to lock up his filing cabinet, gathering his own things, locating his own keys.

"Tony?"

And he glances up from where he is rummaging in his desk drawer, raising his eyebrows questioningly, a silent signal for her to continue.

"I have a bottle of white wine in my fridge, unopened."

And he smiles at her, nodding, "Yeah. That sounds good. Time?"

"Whenever." And the elevator dings and she departs.

"This is nice," he acknowledges, motioning vaguely to their surroundings. She is sitting next to him, bare feet propped up on the balcony railing, barely enough room on the tiny terrace for two chairs and them. Traffic, the blur of headlights and the red smear of taillights pass, several stories below. The inky black expanse of sky spans over them, a half moon suspended in space amongst the company of several thousand pinpricks of gold.

She nods her agreement, sipping her wine, "Yes. This is nice."

He sighs, absently swirling the pale liquid in his half filled glass. "I shouldn't let him get to me, you know? It shouldn't mess me up like it does. . . . It just. . . . sucks," he concluded with a dismissive shrug.

"How long?" And her voice is sympathetic as she regards him over the rim of her glass.

He screws his face up in concentration, mentally calculating the time that spanned between his father's previously last visit and the most recent. Sadly, he comes up empty on an exact number time in months, years, decades. So he settles for, "A while. Like, a couple years a while."

"It does suck," she consoles.

He takes a drink and returns to his study of the wineglass stem, twirling the glass, pensive. After several minutes of companionable silence, she curiosity to wonder aloud, "What are you thinking?"

He sighs once more for the umpteenth time tonight, shifting in his chair. "I was thinking . . . . We didn't do anything. I mean, senior's a washout in the number one dad competition and my opinion of your father is, ah, not so high. What did we do to get stuck with fathers like that, huh? Mine that lies and cheats and leaves and yours that . . . . Er-"

"Lies and cheats and leaves." Lies to her, cheats at life, leaves people behind.

"Exactly! What'd we do? Screw up our karma as fetuses?"

And she laughs lightly at his theory and says, "We certainly do seem to have rather dismal karma, don't we? But, Tony, it was not our fault."

And she is right and he knows this. "It never was about us, was it?"

"No," she answers softly, frowning. "It was never about us." About us, for us, because of us.

"The man got married-"

"Mazel tov."

"And divorced-"

"Tanchumay."

"And remarried-"

"Mazel tov."

"Without telling me," he concluded. "'Way to keep junior informed, Dad. I love you too.' I mean, who does that?" he demands, not of her, but to the air it seems.

She reaches out her hand, letting her fingers brush his arm, and he looks at her and manages a half smile. "I truly am sorry, Tony."

And another lapse in conversation gives way to more still quietness, each mulling over their respective thoughts.

And it is Tony who, five minutes later, breaks the silence:

"I do owe him one thing, though. Believe it or not, he actually taught me something useful."

"Oh?" she inquires, tracing her finger along the rim of her empty glass.

"Oh yeah. Because of him, I know one thing for sure: That I will not be the father mine was. I'll be at every little league game -I'll probably even want to coach. And I'm gonna be there for first steps and graduations and birthday parties. . . . I'm not gonna miss a single piano concert or dance recital -I'll quit my job before I missed something like that. Because I know how important those things are to kids, how important they were to me. . . . How do you miss something like that?"

And she is stunned speechless, only managing to say lamely, "I broke my wrist when I was seven. Eli did not even go with me to the emergency room. When I got home, he told me to wash the tear tracks off my face, because crying was a weakness."

And he shakes his head sadly, mildly disgusted at her father's inactions. "I'm letting my little girls cry -and my boys. Because . . . . I don't want them to grow up thinking they're inferior. And crying is not a weakness. Heck, I'd probably even cry if my kid got hurt," and she believes his words because he would and she knows this. Because he is a good person, a loving person. . . .

"Hey Tony?"

"Zee-vah?"

"I think . . . . I know that you will make a great father someday."

"I hope so . . . ."


	9. A Broken Lullaby

**A/N: This is the grand finale, ladies and gentlemen, my dear dear friends. It has been fun . . . . Geez, I sound like a dirge is playing in the background. This is the final installment to Fathers. And it has been such a lovely ride! Thank you to everyone who alerted, favorited, and reviewed, every one of your kind encouragements. You are beautiful and lovely and I am lucky to have you! . . . . So enough of my sentimental (mostly mental) ramblings. Without further ado, I give you the Conclusion. Review if you want to, much love, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Alas, nothing. . . . .**

A Broken Lullaby 

She could hear him whistling from the bedroom, the sound carrying over the rush of the sink as she washes her hands, her wedding band glinting in the light of the bathroom. Casting one last glance at the counter, she pokes her head around the door. He is sitting on the bed, eyes closed, lips pursed, whistling away. Exactly where she'd left him four minutes ago.

"What do you think your doing, marine?" she calls from the doorway, leaning against the post, smirking in amusement.

He pauses in his music making to reply, "Passing time," before continuing on with his song. So she rolls her eyes good-naturedly, joining him on the bed, relaxing against his shoulder.

"How much longer?" he asks, rubbing the back of her hand with his calloused fingertips.

She sighs, "Couple more minutes." And he nods sagely, resuming his previous task of filling the silence of their room.

And a couple minutes short of a couple, she finds herself getting to her feet, uncertain if it is the not knowing or his incessant whistling that is seeming to drive her to insanity. So in lieu of hitting her husband, she pads into the bathroom, breath bated. And he notices her get up, the brisk pace in which she darted into the bathroom denoting her impatience. And after a few seconds and no reappearance, he calls out hesitantly, "Shannon?"

And when she finally materializes again, framed in the doorway once more, her green eyes are wet and her cheeks damp. Disheartened, he motions for her come to him, intent on soothing away her disappointment. But when she holds out her hand and places the innocuous white stick in his openly waiting palm, he is curious. And she is delighted when she sees comprehension dawn on his face.

Because the little white plastic stick bore the sentiment of a small pink plus sign.

A small pink plus sign that changes his world forever.

Smiling like an idiot, he stands up, spinning his wife around the room, her laughter accompanying his off key singing -because he has now long since abandoned the whistling. Because this is the greatest thing he's ever seen -something that almost rivaled his bride walking down a the church aisle two years ago.

"You're going be a father, Jethro," she whispers as he presses a kiss against her red hair.

* * *

"Are you crazy?" she gasps, laughing as his lips tickled her skin. "What are you doing?"

He glances up at her where she lays propped up against the headboard and he lays perpendicular, chin resting on her swollen belly. "I'm talking to the baby," he explains slowly, as if to a child.

"You're singing, Jethro," she corrects, rolling her eyes.

"So?"

Shannon smirks, running a hand along the taught skin of her convexing abdomen. "So are you trying to make our baby tone deaf?"

And he schools his features into an expression of mock offense. "What are you talking about, she loves my singing."

"She does not-" but her retorts, and his pending one, are silenced as both feel the ripple of movement beneath her skin. And his cobalt eyes are bright with awe as a very obvious nudge momentarily distends her stomach. "She's kicking," Shannon adds lamely, rubbing her belly lovingly, biting her lower lip to curb her laughter.

"She's disagreeing with you," he informs her. "She's putting in her two cents. She likes Daddy's singing, don't you, Sunshine?" And his question is answered with another flurry of kicks against his palms, now spread across his wife pregnant belly.

"You have pink paint on your face," Shannon acknowledges in spite to her defeat. But he just chuckles, pressing a kiss against the warm skin surrounding his baby, simultaneously kissing both her and his wife.

* * *

He whispers it softly, trying not wake either of the dozing women in the room. Because the angel in the narrow bed, resting soundly, red hair fanned out across the white linen pillow, was exhausted after nineteen hours of labor. And when he glances up at her sleeping figure, at the dark smudges beneath her eyes and the plastic bracelet encircled around her wrist, he can't help but think she is beautiful.

There's tiny sigh and his attention is reclaimed by the what might be the most precious little thing ever beheld by man. Her eyes are closed, her lips opening every so often, tiny tongue moving about. Her skin is so very soft and so very delicate, a faint healthy pink tingeing her face and neck -really the only skin exposed. And she is swaddled tightly in a pale rose blanket, a little pastel striped cap covering a downy fluff of fine hair. And he is holding her in his arms so gingerly, his entire body still, his muscles unmoving, his breath as slow as he can possibly make it without falling asleep too. . . . Because he is terrified he's going to break her. Because she was three days early and six and a half pounds. And though the doctors assure him that three days early does not constitute prematurity and that six and a half pounds is perfectly average, it doesn't matter. She could be half grown and he'd still be afraid of hurting her -regardless of what the nurses tell him otherwise. Because Kelly may have made her grand entrance screaming and squirming as she was poked, prodded, suctioned, and wrapped, but she was still his baby girl. His sunshine.

And his hushed whispers barely stir the air as he sings his lullaby quietly to the little bundle he cradles tenderly in his arms.

* * *

He supposes its habit, attuning his ears to perceive every sound that graces the air, ingrained in him courtesy of the Corps. Nevertheless, over the rhythmic scrape of his sander and soft whisper of wood shavings curling to the floor, he could still hear it. The faint sniffling, the low moan of that loose kitchen floorboard that he needed to fix before his deployment. The minute shuffle of cow-print house slippers, child's size 8.

He sets the sander down on the sawhorse, wiping his palms on his jeans, turning to peer up at the landing at the top of the basement stairs.

She was sitting perched on the topmost step, arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees. Her light brown hair was coming out of its braid and her cheeks were damp with tears, blue eyes swimming.

"Hey, now," he calls to her gently. "What're you doing out of bed? You have a bad dream?" And she slowly stands up, clings to the railing as she climbs down, drawing nearer to him. And he meets her at the foot of the staircase, wrapping her in his arms, rubbing her back and she buries her face in his shirt.

"What's wrong, Sunshine?" he asks again, worried.

And at first he doesn't understand what it is she mumbles into his chest. But he requests a repeat and she obliges, whispering chokedly, "I don't want you to go, Daddy."

And now he has to blink back the tears that are suddenly stinging his eyes. "I know, baby, I know," he says, kissing her head, "I don't want to go either."

"Then don't go," she suggests, as if he had a choice, as if the duty was not his.

But he shakes his head slowly, sadly, patiently explaining, "I have to go. I have to go so I can keep you and your mom safe, so I can keep America safe. So you can go to school and grow up to be whatever you want to be. So your kids won't have to ask their daddy to not go."

"I miss you when you go away."

"And I miss you, baby," he replies, brushing the remainder of her tears off her cheek. "But I'm here now, so let's make the most of it, okay?"

And she nods bravely, and his heart is breaking in his chest. "Can I help you work on your boat?" she asks, eyeing the wooden skeleton over his shoulder.

And he should consider that Shannon will have his head if she knew that their daughter was in the basement with his, working on his boat, but the thought doesn't occur to him. Because when he picks Kelly up and places her on her rightful spot on her stool, because when he guides her little hands with his, murmuring, "With the grain," into her ear, quietly so as to not break the spell. Because right then in that moment, it was just him and his little girl, a moment time had granted them to steal briefly.

So as she stands in one of his old USMC shirts, the gentle sounds of her sanding and his low, slightly out of tune bass, singing softly in the quiet of the basement.

* * *

They were gone.

Funny how he was the one to initially do the leaving and how they had begged him to stay. Funny how they had done the leaving after all.

Funny how he left to protect them overseas, but couldn't protect them on the home front.

And by funny, it isn't funny at all.

Because he is crouching down on the soft loamy soil, still loose from its previous disruption. The smell of flowers are to the point of nauseating, adding to the throbbing of his ever persisting migraine. His shoulder, his whole body really, hurts from leaning on his crutches, standing erect all day. He is exhausted, hasn't slept for what seemed like an eternity.

His heart has been shattered and surely he would drown from all the blood that was leaking into his chest, running out of his now stilled spirit.

The breeze picks up again, kissing his face with its cool breath, chilling the tears that are trekking down his face, dripping onto the fresh grave beneath him. Twin tombstones, twin graves. Two women that meant everything to him. Two women that died too soon.

Gone too soon.

Too soon.

Gone.

He should not be a widower at thirty-two.

He should not have to bury his daughter, frozen forever at age eight. Because little girls should not die before their daddies did. Scared and alone without him. And he isn't one to self pity, but the strangers that offered their condolences were wrong. Kelly and Shannon, yes their lives were cut too short too soon. And yes, they did die horribly. But they are not suffering anymore. The sorrow and the grief do belong to them, yes, but the pity and empathy were misdirected. Because the only one suffering now is him.

So he runs a shaking hand over the icy marble, her name forever engraved in stone. His little sunshine.

And he sings, voice melancholy and breaking, her song for her one last time. And he prays she can hear him up in heaven because if any one deserved entrance beyond those pearly gates, it was her.

And he can't even make it halfway through the well-loved tune before he is overcome by sobs and can sing no more.

* * *

The machine beeps softly, steadily, encouragingly -a reminder that a heartbeat still stirs beneath the bruised and broken chest of the woman before him. Her curls are fanned across the pillow, still matted, but her face, at least, is clean. Clean of dirt and dust but filthy with pain and hellish memories. Her lips are set in a firm line, dark purple stains taking refuge beneath the fringe of her dark eyelashes. Occasionally, her eyes will dart beneath her lids, REM, usually denoting dreams, more than likely nightmares, even though the doctors assure him that they've given her something to help her sleep deprived body rest without the threat of dreams.

Ducky was insistent that she be taken to the hospital, a little put out that that had not been their first stop when they disembarked the Redeye. And when he told the good doctor that he had faith that she could be patched up downstairs, he was informed that there was nothing in the basement autopsy to deal with severe dehydration, nor were there any antibiotics to combat whatever diseases that swarmed her veins.

And five hours later here he is, diligently keeping up a vigil at her bedside. Two IVs run into her thin arms, one pumping replenishing her with much needed hydration, the other administering a concoction of antibiotics to combat whatever she may have been exposed to. They'd taken vials of blood, her watching indifferent, eyes betraying nothing. And the x-rays had revealed several healed bones, three half-mended ribs, and a finger that needed to be reset. He had glimpsed the bruises and the scars and the scabs that marred her skin and he had been heartbroken and enraged. And the nurses refused to divulge anything, but the look he'd gotten when he asked about the SA results did not bode well because it confirmed his suspicions.

"Excuse me?" the whispered voice of a nurse breaks into his headspace, effectively defusing the unsafe thoughts he is currently harboring (though he knows they will not stay gone for long). He raises his eyebrows at her in question, remaining silent. So she continues, "Visiting hours are over, Mr. Gibbs. Only family can stay, you'll have to leave."

But he surprises her by informing her, "I am family."

And she narrows her eyes, wondering how this silver-haired blue-eyed American can be related to the olive-skinned dark colored foreigner dozing on the hospital cot. "And what is your relation to Miss David?" she asks, stiffly.

"Her father." And maybe it is the glare the man gives her. Or maybe it is the exhaustion that is so prominent on his face. Maybe it's the devotion these people (the man and the gothic woman, the older gentleman with the accent, the man still slumped in a molded plastic chair outside the room, fast asleep) had to this woman. . . . Perhaps it was the way when she stirred, mumbling something incoherent, fists clenching the blankets around her, that he whispered soothingly into her ear, stroking the back of her hand reassuringly.

Maybe she was just getting soft in her old age, but the nurse permitted Gibbs to stay.

"Ziver," he murmured, brushing back a loose strand of hair as she whimpered softly. "Ziver, shh. You're home, you're safe. Shh." And eventually she quiets again, her heart rate slowing and her breathing evening back out.

And he stays with her, all night.

And he doesn't remember what stirred the long dormant song to find its way to his tongue. And he doesn't know why his daughter's lullaby tumbles from his lips, his voice rusty as he sings softly, still, after all these years, slightly off key. But he does sing the broken lullaby, bitter sweet in the sterile air of a Bethesda hospital room.

"You are my sunshine . . . ."

* * *

_FIN_


	10. Epilogue

_So fathers be good to your daughters_

_Daughters will love like they do_

_And girls become lovers and turn into mothers_

_So mothers be good to your daughters too. . . . . _

And eventually, she did learn to love.


End file.
